


no one's gonna take your soul away

by leeloo6



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flushed Feelings, M/M, Smut, i think this is mostly pwp, post-death angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloo6/pseuds/leeloo6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purple is a hybrid, a unity; it’s heresy. But you find yourself craving wholeness now, like you’re homesick for something you don’t even remember. When Eridan’s eyes turn from milky white to his characteristic dark purple, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one's gonna take your soul away

You breathe in the ether, feeling the inertia of what should be the sensation of your lungs expanding. But this is not air and it hits an invisible limit before it can enter your system, making you choke and clutch instinctively at your neck. It feels like hell, but eventually you get used to breathing like this, like your respiratory system has stopped existing altogether. You remember Aradia warning you about it, back when you were still fully alive and she still wasn’t. You’ve ignored her then, even though you knew she was right- you’ve never experienced ether, but you’ve always sensed that there was something else beneath the world that all of you were seeing. The source of your powers expanded beyond the contigent, somewhere in the Furthest Ring where matter was void of its substance and there was no observer to create reality anymore.

Nothingness is not a problem, because it’s the medium in which doom has its roots in and there are few things that you feel so comfortable with. Not in the traditional sense of the word, since you barely feel safe while your mind is invaded by the voices of the unknown, terror poured into your brain from the outer limits of existence. You don’t feel security, but you feel at home, like it’s a routine that you’ve grown accustomed to even if it shakes you every time. You would even miss it if it decided to finally leave you be.

You will, actually. You don’t know how being half-dead works, but things stop being haunting once they cease being unknown. There is nothing here but nothingness itself, cradling you in its sharp embrace, but you can feel their presence around you, closer than ever before, shrouded but not really hidden behind a layer that still shields your consciousness from the entirety of this world. The afterworld? You don’t think so. There is no after and no before, and you of all people could always feel how time is always synchronized with itself, moments that might seem to follow a simple causality happening all at once. This is simply the world, as it is and always has been.

You feel them gnawing at your mind aggressively, forcing permission. It’s a ritual that you’re used to, but that doesn’t mean it’s not making you uneasy. Stupidly, you wish Aradia were here.

Instead, you feel another presence nearby, someone who is perpetuating the darkness as they walk towards you. There is more red than blue: they haven’t been dead for long, the warmth of a pulse still making its way to you through the thick nothingness. You look up in the distance only to see a well-known figure in a purple hood, looking around in what seems to be equal parts confusion and curiosity. 

Eridan looks as lost as he usually does, despite his steady pacing and straight posture. The way he flinches when he sees you, as if you’re disturbing his own personal reality-dream, reminds you of all the times when he used to stroll through the main room in the lab, perhaps waiting for attention, perhaps not giving a damn, but always looking as if he wasn’t really there, an observer waiting to be observed rather than a participant. It was fortunate that he was a really good fighter, because it always kept you from thinking about how pathetic he was.

`Sol?’ You hate the nickname, you truly do. But, whether it’s because Eridan’s voice is a velvet intermission from the terrible sounds in your head or simply because you are dead and malfunctioning, you hardly find yourself minding. `Where am I?’

‘You’re dead, you idiot,’ you answer, not sounding even half as hateful as you intended to. Eridan must have noticed this, too, because his eyes widen and looks even more scared now, as if you not snapping at him is a serious disruption in the consistency of the the space-time continuum, reinforcing your statement.

`Stop messin’ around with me,’ he shouts, recomposing his expression into characteristic anger. He sounds desperate. `This is just another one a those dream bubbles, isn’t it. I thought you of all people would have the decency not to joke with these kinds a things.’ 

‘Your eyes are going blank, asshole,’ you say, watching his purple irises turn progressively lighter, as if he were going blind. In a way, he is. The dead are growing blind to the world, but the irony is that the change is visible in their eyes only when they start understanding it. Eridan must know by now, even though he’s still trying to hang on to the hope that he’s still alive.

He’s terrified.

`No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening, this can’t be it.’ He falls to the ground in a miserable heap, hugging his knees, hiding his face. `Fef.’ He raises his head abruptly- he’s already gone, his eyes milky white. You find yourself thinking that black would’ve suited him better. `Where’s Fef? I have to find her and apologize, I can’t believe what an asshole I was. You must’ve seen her around, was she furious at me? What am I asking, a course she was, I fuckin killed her, Sol-`

`Would you stop being such a drama queen for a second and shut your protein chute so the afterlife can enjoy some fucking peace and quiet,’you say, more amenable than exasperated. You can’t muster enough revulsion to hate him when he’s like this, vulnerable and regretful. You’ve had your share of knowing how fear sometimes brings out the best of people, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that the only thing you can feel for Eridan right now is pity.

You know you would’ve never even thought of him that way back when more than half of you was alive, but you don’t remember much of those times. You only know that they weren’t the best you’ve had.

`What’s even wrong with your eyes,’ he continues whining, ‘are you still not over your duality bullshit, I swear you’ve only come here to haunt me-‘

He’s babbling, he isn’t really thinking anything through, so you kneel down beside him and cover his mouth with your hand. It’s a soft gesture, more so than the situation requires it, but his whole body goes stiff. His brows are furrowed and if his eyes were still there, they would probably be shooting poison your way.

`I can’t haunt you. You’re already dead,’ you say. He just sits there, silent and unmoving, as if to confirm your words. 

`The fuck, Sol,’ he blurts out after you let go and you can see him shaking now, hands clenched into fists. Anger? Fear? `You can’t violate someone’s personal space like that, it’s fuckin rude.’

`Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?’ You keep your tone neutral, but low and lazy, as if you were issuing a challenge of some sort. You really, really wish you could see his eyes right now, because he blinks slowly in your direction, looking baffled. He’s still scared. He only becomes more pitiable the more you tease him, and something tells you that you shouldn’t have as much fun with this as you currently are.

`Do you mean…’

You’ve talked to Aradia about this. How pitying someone is the strongest form of romance because it leaves you vulnerable, too, in front of the one you sympathize with. How you refrain from hurting them because you want to avoid feeling more pity, exposing yourself to more of an emotion that only indicates weakness. How all romance is, essentially, self-centered.

For a moment you feel like an emotional sadist, because right now you love pitying Eridan. You love the tone of his voice, too, softer than before, a frequency to match yours. The echoes in your mind are a fading sound recurring after every thought, but never strong enough to put you off. You find it ridiculously easy to ignore them right now.

`Yeah,’ you breathe out, feeling the nothingness expand from your lungs. You’re sure that you’ve got some actual breath left in you. Perhaps, in time, you could improve your connection with the half of you that is still alive enough to exchange characteristics, though that might be a violation that the inhabitants of the Furthest Ring simply wouldn’t allow. Leave the dead bury their own dead and all that.

You lean in towards each other until you can feel his breath on your skin, the illusion of air coming from his lungs, ether inhabiting the space you both think you occupy. You feel drawn to him for no reason, because this part of you who flirts with death more often than not was never attracted to Eridan. In fact, you can’t remember any part that was, not this way. Hate, perhaps. Pity, never.

But you feel different now. New. You don’t care anymore, in the best way possible, until the effect is reversed and you care about everything. You care about him.

He pulls back right before your lips touch, pushing you and prompting you to fall flat on your back. You look at him, dazed.

`What the…’

`Do you really think I’m so desperate to fuck anythin that moves that I’ll go at it first thing in the afterlife? Is that the impression you have a me, Sol?’ He sounds really angry now, not just scared or needlessly dramatic. You sigh, rubbing your back.

`You’re really fucked up. Did it ever occur to you that I might actually want you as opposed to turning this into a self-centered batshit storm, like you do every damn time? Really, you can be such an idiot. If I had that fucking impression about you, I would’ve had my way with you countless times already. Like, maybe, before we were both stupid enough to get killed,’ you say. You’re tempted to roll your eyes, before you remember that they’re not there anymore.

His face softens and he looks at you like a confused puppy. He’s so easy to manipulate, so naïve. He just doesn’t want to be alone, like everyone else. This time, it just happens to work in his favour that you’re being completely honest.

`Do you really? Want me, I mean?’ he asks, not looking at you and God, do you pity him right now.

`Yeah,’ you say, shuffling closer. `But don’t let it go to your stupid head. I’ve never had a crush on you back when we were alive or something. I just hated your guts.’ The words sound foreign to you, as if you’re talking about someone else, someone who once cared enough to feel things that could destroy him. Someone who is not you. `But it’s different now. Can’t really explain.’

`Are you really dead?’ he asks. You’re almost whispering to each other now, hushed voices saying words that sound like love poems even though they’re far from it. You used to read those to Aradia, you remember. You still would. 

`Almost. I’m half alive.’ You’re both kneeling next to each other now. You move closer to straddle him, shortening the distance between the two of you. It feels cozy and comfortable, like a dance that you’ve both practiced countless times before, moments rolling onto each other in a lazy flow. 

`So you’re here, but you’re in the real world too,’ he half-whispers, half-asks, looking up to you, kneading his hands through your shirt. He’s still warm, but so are you.

`This is the real world, stupid,’ you spell on his lips. You don’t do something ridiculously cliché like holding his chin and pulling his head up to kiss him; you just lean down as he rises to meet you, resting your hands on his shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing. At least one of the real worlds, you think as you kiss him, and then you think nothing at all because there is no room for thinking in a space that is all ether and Eridan.

It’s slow and tender, like you have all the time in the world. You’re used to slow and tender. It’s always been like this with Aradia, even though you used to dream of bloody lips and scratches before you met her, like any other teenager. Sometimes, you still do, but you wouldn’t trade the quiet determination in your kisses, the patient fever taking over both of you, for anything else.

You wouldn’t trade this, either. You’re already almost dead, you’ve already stopped breathing, suspended in a space between reality and the dream bubbles that you could never stand, because you were always afraid that one of them could bring you back to that day- it’s over now, fear and anger replaced with a comfortable sort of exhaustion that only makes the seconds dilate, prompting you to kiss Eridan with all the patience in the world, like you’re in a dream. He answers with the same deliberation, brushing his lips over yours , biting you gently. You feel oddly pleased with yourself for giving him something to focus on other than death. 

He keeps his eyes closed. You don’t know if it’s because he’s enjoying himself or because he doesn’t want to look at you. You know you wouldn’t want to, either. He opens his mouth and his tongue slides, in a suicidal gesture, over your front- sharp- teeth; you have to remember not to bite down from pure instinct. Your tongues meet and you sink in the warmth of it, exploring his mouth at the perfect angle your current position allows, feeling his abandonment diffuse with yours. His hands are still, catatonic in your shirt. 

A vision of blood and despair clouds your mind as the voices are getting louder. You snap your eyes open. You see him crying.

It looks odd like this. You watch a tear roll down from the nothingness in his eyes. It’s probably an illusion, a temporary inertia fix for the shock of death; dead men don’t cry.

You slide your tongue over his cheek, licking it off. He turns his head, looking away.

`Hey, ED,’ you say. This is probably not a good idea. It might just be the worst idea ever, but after a few seconds Eridan turns his head to look at you and you capture his lips again, gathering all the remains of air from your lungs and breathing them into him.

He gasps, eyes wide. For a moment you feel alive, unbearably alive. You feel him twitch beneath you, heartbeat accelerated as he scratches at your chest with helplessness, joy, life.

For a second, you see his eyes. You’ve always hated purple; you separate red and blue, black and white and everything else, slicing the world into nominal scales, simplifying it to absurdity. Purple is a hybrid, a unity; it’s heresy. But these are thoughts that, like everything else, have long slipped your mind. You find yourself craving wholeness now, like you’re homesick for something you don’t even remember. When Eridan’s eyes turn from milky white to his characteristic dark purple, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

It’s even more beautiful because the spark in his eyes says that he’s alive, and he looks like he’s back home again. He could never stand things that he can’t control. You guess you understand now why he loathes death so much.

It only lasts for a second, though, and the moment is gone.

`Cool, huh?’ you ask, breathless. He looks at you with empty eyes, dazed, like he’s just witnessed a miracle, and you follow your first (stupid) impulse and lean in, kissing his forehead.

He pulls back, frowning. When he speaks, his voice is shaky and laced with confusion. He only sounds a bit angry, probably because he’s still too dumbfounded to realize exactly how much he hates your guts for teasing him like this. God, what were you even thinking. It’s just that- it feels nice, still having a fraction of you that holds air like a memory of life. You thought he should feel it, too.

`Sol, what do you want from me?’ 

`Nothing, stupid. I mean, except for you coming to terms with your own mortality and that kind of shit, but I wasn’t really helping here, was I?’ you murmur. You see his expression soften.

He seems so kind. Was he always so kind? Were you always blind to it, or is it just death that makes him soft?

`Well, not all a us had the time to get used to this like you did,’ he smiles weakly and it should hurt, but it doesn’t and you’re pretty sure that he knows that, too. Being with one foot on the ground and with the other one underneath has always been troubling, but looking back, you feel nothing of it anymore. You somehow feel like it was all necessary.

Aradia will be so damn proud of you.

`I guess you’re right,’ you say. `They’re old stories to me. But that doesn’t give you any excuse to act like a whiny bitch.’ You brush your fingers on the skin of his neck, lightly, putting more emphasis on the touch than on the words. He exhales slowly, tilting his head back almost imperceptibly.

`I’mma rot here, Sol,’ he whispers like it’s terminal.

`You’re not the only one,’ you say. It’s meant to be a cold call back to reality- everybody dies, he’s just another one on the bloody list- but of course that it reaches his ears as an encouragement. The problem with that is, you don’t really mind.

`I can’t put it in my think pan why you’re so nice to me,’ he sighs, kissing your eyes closed. For a moment, you feel like you’re in one of KK’s terribly sappy romcoms, but the impulse to pull back and step out of this scenario while your dignity is still untainted is cut off by how soft his lips feel on your eyelids. `But I like it.`

`Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,’ you say, pulling him closer and kissing him wide for reasons that you cannot fathom. When you grind against him as your tongue slips into his mouth, he makes a low sound from the back of his throat, as if you’re killing him, as if you’re the only thing keeping him alive. He catches fire then, kissing you like he wants to tear you apart, burying his hands in your hair and always pulling closer. He’s iridescent. He’s alive.

You lay him down on his back, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and his trousers at the same time, trying to remove as many clothes as possible in the shortest time- you’re burning now, your want feels terminal. In the meantime, he’s trying to take off your shirt, and both of you are so chaotic and inefficient that at one point you just stop, look at each other and start laughing.

You get up then, straddling him and taking off your shirt while making sure to grind your hips against his.The sound he makes is lovely, a stifled groan punctuated by a deep sigh. His eyes are closed, his head rolled back. When you stand up to take off your pants, he watches you with a hungry expression and gets on his knees before you can reach the first button, licking a long stripe up your stomach as he undresses you with deft hands. 

The only thing stopping your knees from giving up under you is the firm grip that you have on his shoulders, reminding yourself that you’re not allowed to fall or float just yet. You’re sure that if you permitted yourself to make any kind of sound right now, it couldn’t be an embarrassment you could live with. 

But you’re kind of dead anyway, so when he gives a tentative lick to both of your bulges, you moan as if he’s taking you apart.

He’s looking up at you, and he’s alive again. His eyes are lit with amusement, yet more intent than before, full of a quiet determination that’s somehow the most debauched thing you’ve ever seen.

`Your eyes are back,’ you manage to say absently, making extra efforts not to let your lisp get the best of you again.

`Yours aren’t,’ he whispers, but hell if you’re gonna let his post-death melancholy ruin this thing again.

`Good thing that other parts of me are intact, eh,’ you grin and you notice the playful light in his eyes. Success. 

As much as you’d love him to stay at bulge-level and drive you insane, you only let him dart his tongue over the tips one more time before you fall to your knees, joining him on the floor. Right now, you’re the only one who’s naked and this is a situation that calls for instant remedy. You resume unbuttoning his shirt from where you left, watching him as he watches you with a feeling that you can’t define- curiosity? adoration?, even though the intensity of it makes you want to look away. 

When he stands up you know it’s only to have an easier time getting undressed, but you’re still on your knees, so you crawl to him, making sure that you’re keeping eye contact as you lick a stripe up his thigh, stopping before you reach any crucial zone. He looks like someone just slapped him and it would be funny if it weren’t hot as fuck.

`Fuck, this is so not fair,’, he says weakly, but the way he moans when you take his bulge in your mouth is telling you otherwise. You make sure to avoid using your teeth, sucking around him, feeling him squirm under you. You keep a finger pressed to his entrance, applying just enough pressure not to offer him any relief. The way he writhes, trying to impale himself on your finger, doesn’t really help either. He’s so needy right now, it makes you want to take him apart piece by piece, deconstruct his beauty- you feel more patient than ever before, a lethargic dizziness that feels so far from your past conflicts with yourself. You could get used to this.

This state of events changes abruptly when he rubs your horns with impatient roughness, almost pulling. He’s obviously not as patient as you are. Your head goes back, eyes closed in pleasure. You suddenly feel tuned in, with him and with this purgatory that you’re inhabiting, as if you just opened your eyes to the world. You almost feel alive, burning with awareness, breathing in the ether in shallow gulps until it feels like air. Your head goes spinning for a few seconds and taking a deep breath doesn’t work to steady yourself anymore- you just wait until you feel you can open your eyes again, skin prickling with want.

The way he’s looking at you intensifies it, lighting up your nerve ends into fireworks. 

`Sol, now,’ he grunts and the edgy, commanding tone of his voice, usually velvety and pleading, goes straight to your groin. 

As if you needed more persuasion at this point.

You pull him down, taking the opportunity to look into his dark irises while he’s still here, while he’s still alive. His eyes are glassy, lax with desire. You rapidly take in the rest of him- damp hair in disarray, skin flushed, lips bruised from your sharp teeth- and yeah, he’s gorgeous when he’s yours.

The sound he makes when two of your fingers go up his nook is a clear ‘ah,’ surprise and relief and - sometimes he’s so expressive that you’re tempted to believe that he’s never actually pretending, that his whole person is a work of art regardless of his will. You know he’s not faking it now, clutching at you while fucking himself on your fingers, slow and tentative at first, faster when he accommodates you better. He’s touching your bulges, past the point of teasing- he’s wrapped his hand around the base and he’s moving with deliberate, firm motions. You’re kind of surprised by his self-control, actually. You’d expected him to lose himself faster, but you’re the one pistoning your fingers inside him in a needy haze, biting his lips until you draw blood.

`More,’ he says and oh, that tone is definitely not what you signed in for. His voice is think with arousal, but far from faltering. It’s demanding and authoritary, the voice of someone who is used to getting what they want and knows exactly how to get it- it echoes through the hollow spaces in your head, making you dizzy and wanting to give him everything, all that he can take, all at once.

You add another finger, feeling him stretch around you as you go in knuckle-deep. He wails and gives you one hard squeeze and you feel like bursting into a million different colours with how euphoric he makes you, as if you’re wired to blinding lights. 

He stops for a second and takes your face in his hands, looking you in the eye. He seems strangely sober for someone in the current predicament.

Perhaps it’s a side effect of being alive. You wouldn’t know.

He lets go of your gaze without saying anything, but you can read sadness in his eyes and it looks just like everything else does on him: deep, tragic and beautiful.

You don’t have time to think about it too much, because he’s lying down and pulling you over, guiding you inside him and oh. Oh. You have no idea what he’s trying to prove, but he seems intent on taking both of your bulges, which is absolutely ridiculous. They aren’t particularly large, but together they surpass the normal size with more than it’s comfortable. You remember Aradia trying to take them both in a fit of enthusiasm, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for either of you. You open your mouth to protest, half-heartedly as it is with the urgent need to bury yourself inside him, but he kisses you on your open mouth and it’s the best you can do not to go deeper until he starts moving, silently urging you to go on.

`What the hell, ED,’ you say breathlessly and he just grins at you like an idiot. 

`C’mon,’ he whispers as if he’s trying to placate you. You’re obviously not the one who needs to be placated right now. You move into him slowly, giving him time to accommodate, and when you’re more than halfway in he starts squirming harder under you, moving in tempo with your slow thrusts. It’s seriously the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s biting his lip and breathing heavily and you love seeing him this way; you want to tear him apart and piece him back together, make him delirious and stupidly happy.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You feel too kind for your own good.

He’s looking at you with a disconcerting kind of bliss, like something as ridiculous as red feelings are taking place here, or maybe he’s just too far gone to know what he’s doing anymore. You must be a mess right now, sweaty and needy and dead, dead, but he’s watching you as if you were a revelation.

It makes you uneasy. It pisses you off, so you’re relieved when he leans in and whispers, ‘c’mon, deeper,’ in your ear in a sickly sweet voice that you want to drink like liquor.

You oblige, sliding into him in one long, fluid motion and he moans, languor poured into a long sigh, as if he’s trying to get to you in every way possible. He already is, taking you like you’re hitting home, welcoming you whole. He goes stiff for a few seconds and you wait for him to signal that he’s comfortable before you start moving again, rolling your hips in rhythm with his, trying to catch your breath. You’re not sure why this is getting to you, why you’re letting it. You just know that being inside him is amazing and that you never want to stop, eternity or not.

You wonder why the hell is this not hurting him, but his face reads pleasure more than anything else and you stop thinking, coiling inside him, pulling out and sliding back in when he starts making these needy sounds, asking for more. Pleasure is building in every part of your body, making you buzz with quiet static, tuned in to what seems to be a completely different frequency. You listen and listen and you can’t hear their voices anymore, not even at the outer edges of your mind, as if they wouldn’t be there at all. It feels strange and quiet. It feels like relief.

`Hey,’ Eridan whispers, tugging softly at your chin. `Where’d you go?’

`Sorry,’ you say and your lisp is more noticeable than ever, now that you’re too dizzy, melting in sensation to care anymore. You crawl out of your mind and return to him, kissing him with an intensity that you didn’t think yourself capable of.

He juts his hips up, making your bulges go as deep as possible inside him and that’s kind of the moment when you lose it. You adjust your position so you can straddle him better and start fucking him in long, deliberate motions, licking at his neck and fins and mouth and you find that the sounds that he makes are punctuated by your own breathless moans as you slam into him faster, harder.

`Fuck,’ he says between bated breaths. `Yeah, that’s it, Sol,’ and you have to kiss him to shut him up because you’re in danger of coming right then and there. He’s terrible. He’s terrible and filthy and you want to paint him an exhausted shade of pretty at the end of this, force disorder until everything falls into place again and he doesn’t have time to wallow and wonder anymore. He’s pulling at the sheets and arching back, making such a beautiful show out of himself and fuck if you mind right now, because when you touch his bulge he comes all over you with a strangled moan. You go over the edge with him a few seconds later, feeling your whole body alive and burning, moving inside him until you’re wasted and spent and unable to do anything but collapse in a heap on top of him, trembling.

He pets your hair in reassurance with what seems to be genuine tenderness as he’s trying to regain his own breath and the whole situation strikes you as completely ridiculous. You roll off him trying not to think of how much of a mess you’ve both done of yourselves and proceed to beat yourself up for what just happened.

What exactly just happened?

You’re trying to figure out which was the moment when you thought fucking would be a perfect cure for post-death depression and just why do you find yourself harboring feelings of a questionably red nature for a troll you’ve hated all your life when said troll turns his head to you. You see him staring from the corner of your eye, but you’re not ready to face him, not yet. You don’t think you’re up to seeing his eyes hollowed out again.

Except that when he tugs softly at your chin, making you look at him, his eyes are warm violet and smiling.

`Okay, what the fuck did just happen and why did I ever think it would be a good idea,’ you say, unable to keep frustration out of your voice.

`There’s no way I’m lettin’ you feel bad about this, asshole,’ he says fondly. `So shut down your think pan for a while, ‘kay?’ He’s not taking it as a rejection, he’s not stupid. You kind of really like him right now.

You kind of want to tell him, too, but damn you if you will.

`You’re dead,’ you say sharply, but your hand reaches to hold his. `This doesn’t help, ED. I’m gonna leave and you’re gonna be on your own again.’ You speak without looking at him, afraid that the change will take place when your words will reach him, when he’ll wake up again to find out that he’s dead.

It doesn’t.

`Gonna deal with it,’ he says simply. `It’s terrible, but I can manage. I was on my own for long on LOWAA, it’s not like…’

`It’s different now,’ you say, raising your voice to prove a point that you don’t even want to prove. He doesn’t answer, just scoots closer.

`You’re not doin’ any better, Sol,’ he whispers.

`Fuck off,’ you say. You don’t want to be nursed and pitied, as tempting as it would be. You don’t want to think, either; you breathe in the void, feeling it ride through you as you disappear and for a moment, it feels like bliss. It calms you down.

`What now?’ you ask and you feel him shrugging lazily into your shoulder. You want to believe that he’ll remain like this forever, soft and too spent to care about anything that could hurt him.

`We just get on with dyin’,’ he says, chuckling softly. It’s not like you have a choice. You know you’re going to return to life soon, it runs in cycles, but the reason it feels so strange is that you can never be fully alive again. It feels like you’re in limbo, one foot in the tomb and the other one in the clouds, aiming for two things and getting the most out of neither of them.

You’re tempted to envy Eridan for being entirely dead, but something tells you this wouldn’t help the current situation too much. You hate that you started thinking again, letting intrusive thoughts run in circles and shatter the ounce of peace of mind that you’d found when you first came here. You hate it.

You look down and see that your bodies are clean again. For a short second, you’re panicked that you’ve imagined everything, that it was all an illusion to keep you fed on endorphins long enough not to try to blow your brains out- not that it would have worked anyway- but Eridan is looking at you, he’s there and he’s tangible, you can touch him. There. Your mind is back again.

You both dress up in silence, but the way he’s looking at you makes you feel more naked than before. You think of the Helmsman, you think of your dancestor and you wonder if you haven’t gone mad already without realizing it. Mad enough to attract pity.

You rest against a wall and before you know it you slide down, sitting and pulling your knees towards you. When you look at your side, he’s there, mirroring your position.

`Thanks,’ he says, smiling with more kindness than you’ve ever seen him before. You just feel like falling into the deepest hole the earth can muster.

`For what?’ you ask, your voice full of spite. Not for him; for your own incompetence, for your own incapacity to pull yourself out of this state of mind and infesting others with it as if they were your property to mar. `I’m the most unhelpful piece of shit the world’s ever known.’

`Well that’s too bad, ‘cause I think you’re kind a the best,’ he says, resting your head on your shoulder and you feel like laughing at how ridiculous this is.

Instead you fall into a pattern of quiet breathing, enjoying the silence stretching between the two of you, comfortable with your lack of hope. As a prince of hope, it is his responsibility to recognize when all hope is lost, but he’s looking at you as if he just found the purpose of life and even when his eyes start to fade away, even when you slip out of the comfortable consciousness that you’d settled into and feel the voices picking at your mind again, disquieting you with their prophecies of doom and despair, his smile lingers on and you find more warmth in that than many days of life gave you.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wrote this starting from Ether/Coil (which is possibly the most amazing song ever) and Gods&Monsters from Lana del Rey.


End file.
